


Flower Shop Boy

by alchemicals



Series: Draco Malfoy is Very Pretty [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adorable, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Christmas Fluff, Draco Malfoy Owns A Flower Shop, Draco Malfoy is very pretty, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THIS IM SO ANNOYED, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15085361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemicals/pseuds/alchemicals
Summary: The one where Harry Potter goes to Diagon Alley to help Pansy Parkinson and just happens to see Malfoy through a shop window.Or where Draco Malfoy has fucking freckles and now Harry doesn't know what the fuck to do with his emotions - or his dick.-Re-upload as my idiot ass deleted this by accident.





	1. Drarry Prophet Reviews

**Author's Note:**

> I HONESTLY CANNOT BELIEVE MYSELF  
> -  
> I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THIS IM SO SORRY I HONESTLY CAN'T RN.

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_Special thanks to @DrarryCentral for letting me be a part of the community! (I feel so loved, man.) At the end of the fic please find the Skeeter's Gossip Column enclosed, where we can all have a nice chat about the boys <3_

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 **Title:** Flower Shop Boy

 **Author: Alchemicals** or malfoyisms (on wattpad)

 **Beta:** No one (because I have no friends)

 **Type:** Chaptered

 **State:** Complete

 **Rating:** Mature

 **Word count:** 7,878

 **Warnings:** Mild bad language, Smut

 **Summary:** The one where Harry Potter goes to Diagon Alley to help Pansy Parkinson and just happens to see Malfoy through a shop window.

Or where Draco Malfoy has fucking freckles and now Harry doesn't know what the fuck to do with his emotions - or his dick.

 **Tags:** Many, many tags. lavenderbrown, smut, fluff, christmas time, pansyparkinson, dracomalfoyisverypretty, just all-round being adorable by my favourite boyz

**Quote:**

_"Still, it's intriguing and beats waiting for Pansy, so he lets his feet carry him down towards the shop front..._

_Wait._

_Harry doesn't believe the breezy, singing boy dancing around in Malfoy's Blooms - bitch what? - is really Draco Malfoy_.

_He refuses to believe it, really, because this Malfoy has a light dusting of freckles over his cheeks and nose, hell, this Malfoy has lips as delicate as the pink tulips littering the shop window...this Malfoy wears suede tunics and white shirts tucked into beige chinos and this Malfoy looks damn good. Harry wonders why no one bothered to tell him the git was back from his 2 year trip to Paris, or why the ex-Death Eater is prancing around in a Flower Shop. "_


	2. Of Pansys & Malfoys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's feet don't like him - they carry him to unexpected places.

**Harry Potter and the Flower Shop Boy**

Diagon Alley looks nice at this time of the evening, Harry thinks. Quiet, peaceful, snowy and filled with the silent hum of magic that encases both him and Pansy Parkinson in its warm embrace. Don't look so surprised; one must have seen it coming. Harry's a hero, plain and simple, and right now his biggest task is helping Pansy get gifts for Hermione. Something about a 1-year anniversary or something; Harry doesn't listen very often.

It's funny, really, Harry thought that the biggest of surprises were all over and done with back in his 7th year, sometime around when he somehow managed to die and then come back to life. Fun times, to be quite honest. Fun times.

"Do you think Hermione'll like chocolates?" Pansy's voice rings out clear and loud through Harry's thoughts and, with a jolt, he realises her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow has been dragging him towards a large shop front. There, sitting on a table decorated with different coloured fabric is a box of Charlie's Blooming Rose Chocolates™. The kind that blooms when given to someone you truly love. They seem nice enough, so Harry shrugs and nods.

Pansy glares at him, thin lips pressed into a tight line, her dark eyes sinking through to his soul. Harry decides he should backtrack.

"Um...she'll appreciate the magic gone into making them?" He tries instead. Harry knows he's stretching it, but he knows Hermione. The girl had a weird interest in things like that. Pansy hums, her free right hand coming up to tap her chin.

After a moment, just when Harry is contemplating feigning sickness and heading home - it really is far too cold to be outside - Pansy's delicate face breaks out into a pretty smile. "Yes, good idea Potter. I think if I couple these with those books on the Gringott's Banking system she wanted last week, as well as some of that sappy Muggle music you two are fond of, I'll be the best girlfriend ever." Pansy extracts her limbs from Harry's and blinks up at him, her short black hair swirling around her face with the slight breeze. "Wouldn't you agree, Potter?"

What was he supposed to say to that? Yes, Pansy, you will be the best girlfriend ever and I'm slightly jealous of Hermione because my last girlfriend was about two years ago and she's gone off to join some Quidditch team while I'm here slaving over Auror paperwork? Harry snorts quietly and sends a quick, reassuring smile down to Pansy.

"I'm sure you'll be considered amazing, Parkinson." And apparently, that's all the encouragement that the shorter woman needs, as she kisses him on the cheek and disappears into the shop with a breezy "thanks, darling, stay here or I'll hex your balls off."

Harry considers obeying - it  _is_ Pansy after all - the Slytherin doesn't joke around. But after a moment of stomping his feet and curling his arms around himself to stop his body from shutting down with the cold, Harry decides that if he stands outside the shop -  _Charlie's Chocolate Factory,_ the sign on the door reads - he'll have no more balls for Pansy to hex off.

So he decides to take a wander.

**-**

It takes Harry a while to realise he's been absentmindedly shuffling back and forth in front of a few select shops. They're all a pasty pink, sort of, with white trims and various titles. Things like  _Pastel Pastries - Yummy treats for all sweet teeth!_ Or  _Tina's Teddys! - Have a house colour? Tina's Teds will change accordingly!_

It's all very disconcerting, far too cute and pretty for his taste, but Harry can't deny that the colours calm him down, and spread a sort of warmth that's short-lived and stops at his fingertips. He's just about to turn back around to pace for the umpteenth time when a shop at the end of the street catches his eye. It's a sort of mint colour, he concludes after staring at the pale green, yet Harry isn't quite sure why this strikes him as odd. Still, it's intriguing and beats waiting for Pansy, so he lets his feet carry him down towards the shop front...

Wait.

Harry doesn't believe the breezy, singing boy dancing around in  _Malfoy's_ _Blooms -_ bitch what? - is really Draco Malfoy.

He refuses to believe it, really, because this Malfoy has a light dusting of freckles over his cheeks and nose, hell, this Malfoy has lips as delicate as the pink tulips littering the shop window...this Malfoy wears suede tunics and white shirts tucked into beige chinos and this Malfoy looks damn  _good._ Harry wonders why no one bothered to tell him the git was back from his 2 year trip to Paris, or why the  _ex-Death Eater_ is prancing around in a  _Flower Shop._

It's all rather unnerving.

 _A small warning would've been nice_ , he concedes as his eyes rake over the other man,  _to be given some sort of heads up about this new shift in the universe._

And now that Harry's feet have gotten a taste for wandering, they can't seem to understand his protests as they drag him up the pastel blue steps. It's ridiculous, how little control Harry has of his body parts, and he tells himself that's why his whole body is on fire; and most importantly why his cheeks probably closely resemble a tomato.

His hands - still encased in their thick gloves - seem to have gotten the memo from his feet that today is ignore Harry Potter Day™, as they're up against the glass door, poised and ready to grasp the brass handle. He hates his limbs, he decides. He really does.

Yet that doesn't stop his body from stepping into the warm shop, and certainly doesn't stop him from flinching at the charming tinkly sounds the door makes as he opens it.


	3. Of Fair Evenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets this new Malfoy - is he dreaming?

Harry stands in a large open space that smells suspiciously of sweet apricots; not to mention far more flowers than he's ever imagined. In his life. Who knew so many existed? He can't imagine Malfoy getting many customers if the empty shop is anything to go by. But, Harry supposes, it  _is_ like -84750° Celsius outside. Not exactly prime flowering weather.

Harry decides he'll take his time looking around, and if Malfoy just happens to turn around - well, who is Harry to deny fate? And also the fact that Draco's arse doesn't look half bad in chinos contributes to the whole cause. 

The back wall is painted the same obnoxiously pretentious pale blue as the steps outside, and Harry is delighted to see some Muggle Dream Catchers stuck onto the flat surface. So Malfoy has finally found joy in Muggle bits and bobs?

Things - brightly coloured things - hang from the ceiling with what Harry guesses are a lot of Suspending Charms; so that showers of many petals and skinned branches spill from the heavens and onto the floor. Harry wonders how it all hasn't been squelched to compost.

Malfoy stopped singing a while ago, now busy with rearranging the ceramic white flower pots for sale at the far back of the room. The shelf rests against a burgundy wall, the only dark thing in sight and Harry thinks it makes for an interesting contrast.

Malfoy hasn't yet turned around.

"Fair evening, Welcome to  _Malfoy's_ _Blooms,_ I'll be with you in one moment. Terribly sorry for the delay."

Okay, Harry thinks, trying to suppress the slight sigh that has built up in his throat. That's fine. In fact, it's more than fine. It means Harry has enough time to re-evaluate his life choices, giving him optimum time to make a speedy exit...not to mention a few extra seconds to indulge in a pastime that is quickly - alarmingly so - becoming Harry's favourite; Staring At Malfoy™.

Malfoy has grown his hair longer - Harry wants to ask if the bastard is  _trying_ to kill him - and now the pale blonde strands graze the top of his back, tied with a string of leather rope into a low ponytail. It's rather unfair, really, how beautifully soft it looks. Criminal, more like, the way Malfoy's voice now resembles breathy lavender, soft and unspoken with a certain grace.

Who in Godric's name says ' _fair evening?'_

"Sorry for the delay, how may I -" Malfoy turns around swiftly, so fast that Harry doesn't see it coming and when he does Harry wants to scream. Just for the heck of it. Those eyes are like moonlit pools of silver, wide and questioning. "Po- _Harry_?"

This has to be a crime, the way the blond gulps slowly and lets his Adam's apple bob so obscenely - it makes Harry want to do something risky; like attack the boy and lick a stripe across his pale neck. He clears his throat and tries hard not to think about fondling this new, prettier Malfoy. Not that Draco Malfoy wasn't pretty before, but his general arsehole-ness really blinded Harry, so the Gryffindor never had time to admire his arch-nemesis.

Actually, now that Harry thinks about it, perhaps that was for the best.

"Er, hey, Malfoy." Is this how one greets an ex-arch-nemesis? Harry wouldn't know, he's never done it before.

Malfoy nods respectfully, gliding across the floor towards him and Harry tries not to suck in a sharp breath as the scents of sweetened almonds attack him. Was that some sort of cologne? Surely Malfoy doesn't smell like this  _all_ the time. Right?

"It's Draco. I suggest we start to act like the adults we are. Unfortunately, War strips the 11-year-old out of a man."

"Right...right." Harry tries not to reach out and grab the shorter man's face and kiss him senseless. He clears his throat again, tries to think of something even remotely witty. "I...since when do you have freckles?" Harry pauses before adding, " _Draco"_ for good measure.

He feels 12 years old again, and his heart is beating erratically - which simply won't do - sending blood rushing to Harry's ears and the palms of his hands sweat inside of his gloves.

Draco's hands - pale, delicate... feminine, Harry notices - reach up to touch his freckled face. "Oh, these? I've always had them. My father detests the things, though, they remind him too much of my Mother's sister, Andromeda, so I used to cover them up with magical glamour."

In Harry's opinion, concealer - such a mUgGLe invention - would've worked just as well.

He purses his lips. "But Andromeda doesn't have any freckles." Somewhere in the fog of confusion, curiosity and - okay, he admits it - arousal, he swears he remembers Draco making fun of Ron's own face of constellations.

"It's the inconsistency of the blemishes he doesn't like. He likes to think Andromeda is a blemish all in herself." Draco sucks in a breath, as though realising he's said far too much to someone that the last words he'd said to were "See you never, Potter."

What an interesting turn of events, Harry thinks as Draco turns back around to tend to some droopy looking flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Of Lavender And Almonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter does not like Pansy Parkinson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm actually doing.

"So, how has life been treating you, Harry? Got yourself a special someone?"

Harry closes his hanging jaw and wipes at the drool threatening to spill onto his chin. "Uh,  _ahem,_ no. Not at all. Yourself?"

Draco looks over his shoulder and smiles, a radiating thing of sunshine and sunflowers. "No,  _not at all_. But you yourself are looking quite dashing."

Harry almost chokes on his own saliva, his breath hitching as he quietly tries to gasp for air. Is he hallucinating? Dear God, dreams that he never knew he had ever dreamt are coming true.

"Oh, uh, thank you." That's it? That's all Harry has to say? Merlin, it's a wonder how he even managed to defeat a Dark Lord when his own emotions will probably be the death of him, never mind  _Avada Kedavra._ "You also look...um..." Shit, what does one say to someone one kind of wants to bang on a bed of roses?

"Enchanting? Dangerously handsome?" Draco's grin still brightens up even the darkest corners of the room; the droopy flowers are left forgotten as he glides over to the sign on the front door that reads  _Bonjour, we are open!_ and flips it to _Au Revoir, we are now closed._

Draco spots Harry's dubious expression, and delicately waves one hand in a simple gesture. "There's no one out there of interest, anyways. I'd much rather talk to you."

Harry swears - he  _fucking swears_ \- he came here with someone named Panty, or Patty, or something of the sort, and he probably should be getting back to that person, but he can't be too sure with the way Draco's intoxicating scent in invading his personal space.

It shouldn't be arousing, but it is. And Harry, for one, doesn't like it.

That's a blatant lie if he's ever heard one.

Draco's observing him, he can feel it, and Harry almost lets his mouth open up to say things when the blond walks up to him and stands so close that his chest almost brushes up against Harry's arm. He smiles delicately and moves in once he notices Harry isn't ripping him into shreds just for being in his personal bubble. Dammit, why isn't Harry doing that? That would be the most logical course of action.

But then Harry remembers he's a Gryffindor and logical isn't really in his dictionary.

He hates the fact that he's so close to Draco now he can trace the man's face with his eyes, greedily taking in the translucent eyelashes, the dusting of freckles sitting just inside his skin, and the pale rose blush spreading across his nose and cheeks. It's fucking fascinating, watching that thing spread like wildfire across the pale, ivory canvas of the Slytherin's flesh. 

There's a daisy tucked in behind Draco's left ear, as well as a strand that's happened to come loose.

Before Harry can tell himself to stop and  _sit the fuck down,_ he's taking off his gloves and using both hands to tuck Draco's blond hair neatly into the rest of the ponytail.

The world tilts on its axis as Draco mewls. It's like the shop is drifting off into space and Harry and the man in front of him are the only ones left in the universe. Harry's chest constricts as his breath hitches, and his whole fucking system is thrown out of whack.

Draco  _mewled._

Harry's teeth are biting down on his tongue, but it's too late as a slightly breathy moan escapes him. What the fuck is happening? Has the Armageddon begun? Has Godric Gryffindor returned to Earth? Has Pansy Parkinson been screaming his name at the top of her lungs for the past five minutes? Well -

"HARRY MOTHERFUCKING JAMES BLOODY POTTER! IF I DON'T SEE YOU OUT HERE IN THE NEXT MINUTE YOU MIGHT AS WELL WRITE YOUR WILL, BUILD YOUR OWN COFFIN AND CHOOSE YOUR GODDAMN FUNERAL SONG BECAUSE I WILL COME AND KILL YOU RIGHT WHERE YOU'RE STANDING!"

Her incessant screeching is enough to send the shop streaking through the atmosphere and landing with a jarring bump back onto planet Earth. The world that consists of more people than just Malfoy and him sharing mewls and moans.

He quickly steps away from Malfoy - the git has the audacity to be smiling slightly - and is halfway out the door when that lavender voice is drawing him back.

"Is that Pansy?" The Slytherin asks, and Harry wonders how long it's been if the man can't even recognise his old best friend's voice. "I haven't seen her in ages. Can I come say hi?"

Why the hell was Malfoy asking for his permission? This whole new mewling Malfoy thing wasn't sitting right with Harry if he were completely honest. Malfoy's were supposed to be...be...infuriating and exasperating! Always scheming and plotting, not dotted with freckles and  _mewling._

On the other hand, Harry is quite glad that Malfoy has thought to do such an undignified a thing as ask, as it gives Harry quite the excuse to politely tell him to fuck off.

"No, no. It's fine, Malfoy, we have to go feed...her pet Hermione." Harry wants to kill himself, he really does, but he manages to ignore the rise of one perfectly plucked blonde eyebrow. "Yup. I'll just...be taking my leave now. Bye!"

And with that Harry's slamming the door behind him and sprinting towards a rather angry looking Pansy Parkinson.


	5. Of Unsure Escapades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavender and Ron have determined that Harry should go back to Malfoy...

Diagon Alley reeks of poor life choices and bad decisions, Harry thinks, not to mention rapidly depleting Gringott's bank accounts. Loud, intruding, still snowy and bustling with parents clutching at Christmas wishlists in their hands, determined to make this Holiday Season a special one. The silent hum of magic that graced both him and Pansy last week is gone, replaced with a newer, denser feel of energy that encases him, Lavender Brown and Ron Weasley.

It's disgusting, it really is, the way their hands can't seem to separate from each other; or the way Ron's lips are constantly attached to Lavender's.

Listen.

Don't get Harry wrong, he's happy for his mate, he really is. But Harry's just never  _got_ Lavender. She didn't like random, quirky bookish finds like Hermione did, didn't like experimenting in the kitchen with Ron like Hermione used to. Not to mention the curls in her hair are all wrong. 

Harry suppresses a scowl as he eyes the limp waves, mouth twisting bitterly as he's reminded of Hermy's chestnut curls, bouncy and alive; practically breathing out character.

If anything, the only thing those two - Hermione and Lavender, that is - have in common is the oddly smart, but infuriating advice that both of them would give Harry when he dared complain about something.

And now, it seems, is no exception. "Look, Lav - I'm fine, really. I already said I don't want to go anywhere near -"

Ron pats Harry on the arm, shutting him up with a look that reads  _mate, just let her have this._ And who is Harry to deny his greatest friend of something? Even if that friend is currently trying to lead Harry away to his death. It's his hero complex, he concludes and resolves to fix the dastardly issue someday. 

But then again, he's glad he never did, otherwise, they'd all be cowering under some No-nosed bald guy's rule.

"Oh hush it, Harry. Don't worry," the woman giggles, nose patched a very vibrant shade of pink, and her gloved hand tugs at his elbow,"it'll be so fun! Just think, you and Malfoy -"

Harry did  _not_ want to think, thank you very much. He had spent the last 9 years thinking, and quite frankly, he was bored with it. Merlin only knew the anxiety his thoughts had caused him, and so right now he wanted to go with his gut feeling. And, would you look at that, Harry's gut is promptly telling him to get the fuck out of Diagon Alley before 'you're roped into something you can't escape, Harry.'

He doesn't know what to say to make the woman shut up - though, with the way Ron's piercing blue eyes are regarding him, Harry isn't sure he's quite allowed to. So he settles for blocking out the sound of her incessant squeak of a voice, mind switched off as he people-watches.

Everyone looks so jolly, so fucking jovial that Harry can't help but think, 'is this it?' Is this the future he'd been pining for as a kid, still stuck in that awful closet under the stairs? Was this the future little 11-year-old Harry had when he first heard the words "You're a wizard, Harry," escape Hagrid's lips? 

This haze of barely-there feelings and pale coloured thoughts? This mess of a life where men with silver pools for eyes and soft, curled hair haunt him in the dark escape behind the closed skin of his eyelids?

The world hates him.

"- so that's why we're dragging you to his shop. Like, right now."

Wait, what? Harry turns sharply to face Ron, ripping his arm away from Lavender's leering touch - the girl was far too soft, all skin and fat with curves galore - she reminds Harry of a leech; of a very special redhead with crimson lips and a pretty smile. Of Ginevra Weasley.

**-**

**a bit short, but the next chapter is so worth it.**


	6. Of Flirting and Dra-Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Harry wants Malfoy to bite.

Malfoy isn't singing when Harry allows Lavender to practically chuck him into the shop, and he can't help but think that the girl is far too strong for her own good. In a strange sort of way, it reminds him of Hermione, reminds him of that quiet fierceness that's there - hidden underneath layers of femininity and intelligence, sure - but still there nonetheless.

This new revelation leaves Harry with a bitter taste in his mouth, and he shakes his head, trying to rid his tongue of the bitterness.

He's shivering, he realises and dripping melted snow onto the hardwood floor of  _Malfoy's Blooms,_ and his hands clench into fists. Harry wonders if he should bother with a few cleaning spells, just to save Dra-Malfoy the trouble. 

Don't look so surprised, one must have seen it coming. Harry  _is_ a hero, after all, and no matter who the civilian - or ex-Death Eater - if he, the hero of the Wizarding World, is to drip on someone's dignified floor, then he, Harry Potter, has a duty to be worried about rotting the wood.

His thoughts ring hollow in his ears, and Harry turns his attention to Malfoy. It takes him a bit to realise that Malfoy isn't doing much of anything a few moments after Harry has allowed Lavender to practically chuck him in in such an undignified manner, instead the blond is perched delicately on a wooden bench in the corner of the shop.

The bench reminds Harry of the outside, painted a tiresome pale green -  _mint,_ his mind supplies - and tucked into a corner so dark that Harry wonders if this is all part of Malfoy's plan to ruin Christmas for curious passers-by by scaring them like it's Hallowe'en. "Erm..." Harry coughs.

Does one cough when near an ex-arch-nemesis? Harry wonders if he should resolve to buy a few books on the subject; as it seems he'll be ending up in this situation far more times than he'd ever anticipated.

Malfoy's head snaps up from the small book in his hands, and Harry lets his eyes roam over those bony fingers, long and grasping withered pages of what Harry now assumes is a sketchpad. The shorter man smiles slightly, and Harry almost subconsciously follows the movement with every rise and fall of his heart.

"My dearest Harry, you've come back to me." Malfoy closes the leather bound journal with a slight snap -  _magnets?_ \- and Harry almost chokes as the git begins to stretch out languidly in front of him. Today, Malfoy looks nothing less than beautiful, dressed in a plain white shirt, the pretty brown chinos and a lilac coloured translucent kimono. "Did you miss me?"

Harry is sure that he once upon a time he could use his tongue and mouth to form something called worfs, or aords, or something of the sort, but with the way that Malfoy's shirt has risen up slightly to expose the pale expanse of his soft, lean stomach, Harry realises that today will be a monumental day. 

It will be the day that Harry's words escape from his mouth that's - admittedly - hanging open just the slightest; the day that Draco Malfoy is wearing a damn kimono and his top button is undone. It is the day that Draco Malfoy has one of those dandelion wish flowers clinging to the back of his left ear; the day Harry splutters till he can form sentences no more.

He's fucked. Well and truly doomed.

"What? No! No, Malfoy, I didn't miss you. Er - um, why would you...uh think that?" Harry peers at Malfoy as the blond's expression drops.

That taut stomach pulses ever so slightly, before that blasted shirt falls down to cover the pale skin. "Harry, I thought we already went over this. My name is  _Draco._ "

Harry knows that; he really does, but he isn't sure his body does. Hot flashes sing through his limbs, encasing his bones and seeping into his veins like poison. A really delicate, almond-smelling poison. "Yeah, yeah I know - but like...it's just um, weird for me. To say that."

Malfoy -  _Draco_ \- glides from his bench and into the light of the shop. Harry's eyes fall immediately on the Slytherin's freckled face, gaze sliding over the man's nose and cheeks. He feels something surge in the very lower part of his stomach when Draco is suddenly in front of him, pretty little hands clasping the front of his jacket.

This is new. Very much so; and Harry wonders why on earth he isn't hexing the life out of Malfoy.

"Harry, it's not that hard to say my given name. I won't bite." Malfoy's rosy lips spread into a smile that reminds Harry of a shark, all teeth and no humour. "Much. I won't bite - much."

Harry's stuck, his breath lodged in his throat as a warm body, so full and so  _Draco,_ invades his personal space. Merlin, he feels so soft.

Their knees bump against each other, chests falling and rising and grazing and pulling apart. And suddenly the world very much seems to shrink to accommodate only two wizards on all of the Earth. Draco leans in, and Harry notices for the first time how he seems to have grown into that nose that had seemed all too pointy at Hogwarts. Now the softly rounded flesh pushes against Harry's jawline, running across the stubble that dots it.

Harry practically melts, allows his body to fall forward and slips into Draco's embrace. He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, or what has possessed him, but Harry also finds that he doesn't mind. He wants this. So much more than he ever could have imagined. Hips grind into his, and Harry bites at the exposed skin on Draco's neck - it's taunting him, he thinks, daring him to lose all control and become positively  _animalistic_ \- to stop himself from moaning.

Is this indecent? Rubbing against your ex-arch-nemesis in the middle of his flower shop? Right where any incoming customer can see? Perhaps, but Harry's too focused on the heated flush that marks Draco's once flawless skin, watches it seep underneath the first translucent layer of flesh and travels down the blond's neck. It's beautiful. Draco is beautiful.

What the fuck is happening.

"Maybe I -"Harry breathes in thick scents of sweetened almonds, lips brushing against Draco's ear as he murmurs. "- Maybe I want you to bite."

 


	7. Of Indecent Frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a slut for Drarry smut <3

Draco's hips slam into his, ripping a violent moan of pleasure from Harry as explosions of white heat cloud his vision. Harry wonders if the fact that he's getting off by humping his ex-arch-nemesis in the middle of his own flower shop is cause for any sort of worry, but he's too caught up in his own ecstasy.

Something's wrong with this, Harry is sure of it, but he just can't figure out what. He's sure, at this point, that Godric Gryffindor has most definitely come to earth, and the Armeggedon has most certainly begun because this whole  _shift_ in the very nature of the universe isn't normal. 

This world where Harry Potter's and Draco Malfoy's let each other explore their skin with plump lips and hesitant tongues just isn't the right world for this Harry Potter.

Or so, he tells himself.

" _\- what the fuck is that supposed to mean, 'Christmas flowers?' As if you expect me to know exactly what you're talking about and -_ oh. Um, am I interrupting something?"

Harry wants to cry - he really does - when he extracts himself hastily from Draco and notices the young girl standing just inside the glass door to the shop. Oh brilliant, not only did this 15-year-old looking kid catch Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy humping like wild geese horny for some action, but the whole of the Wizarding World most likely saw their desperate display.

Draco, ever the businessman, launches into a pleasant conversation with the kid, and Harry wants to allow himself to admire the way the man discards the whole debacle that took place not moments before, but he doesn't. 

He wants nothing more than to launch himself out the window and race back home, but he's worn and flushed underneath his many layers of clothing, not to mention that overtop the kid's head Draco is giving him the evil eye.

And so Harry stays, finds himself retreating back to nestle in Draco's earlier corner of solitude, and lays his scarf, gloves and oversized coat on the bench. 

Is he comfortable? Yes. Does he want to kill himself at this present moment? Yes. Is he sporting a raging hard-on and is desperately trying to think of Molly Weasley naked to get rid of it promptly? 

Well, one doesn't need to know such things lest they are scarred for life.

He settles for eavesdropping on Draco's conversation with the young girl in front of him instead. Less scarring and damaging of his brain tissue that way. The girl is pretty; definitely, the type he would have gone for back in Hogwarts while he was still forcing himself to  _just be normal and like girls only._

Her hair is a strawberry blonde kind of thing, tied up in two buns atop her head, and even from where he's standing Harry can see her pretty, doe brown eyes. They have nothing on moonlit pools of silver, he'll tell you that, but they speak to him in the same way his father's eyes did, back when he caught a glimpse of him and his mother in the Mirror of Erised.

"So what do you think he's looking for?" Draco asks, all brisk business and flowering petals. Today, nothing hangs from Suspend charms by the ceiling, and so the floor isn't littered with compostable rose bits and disregarded twigs and leaves.

The girl bristles, shivering slightly in her long pea coat that covers her knees. "Their pronoun is  _they,_ sir. They're not a boy, nor a girl." Draco seems to understand, and Harry's mind flitters back to when talk of Blaise Zabini being non-binary seemed to echo from within the very walls of Hogwarts; it seems as though even then the Slytherin Prince and his friends seemed to attract all the attention in school.

Not that Harry had been complaining then. He had been mighty fine with letting Draco and his posse be the leading factor of gossip; it kept the fangirls for himself at bay.

"Right, right, I do apologise. I think they'll be looking for some poinsettias then. Those are known as these 'Christmas flowers' you speak of."

The girl shifts her weight, and Harry notices how long her face seems. Not so much that it's out of proportion, but so much so that one could identify it as oblong. Her nose is long and thin, her lips plump and stretched out, and that same mouth twists into a slight smile. She reminds Harry of Andromeda, more so than Draco ever did, and he settles back in the bench to watch the blond bustle about in the small shop, gliding over to a shelf where large, star-shaped red flowers sit in little pots alongside the wall.

"Sure, yeah. Yeah, whatever, seems cute. How much is it?"

Draco hands one of the large flowers to the girl, and the edges of his own lips quirk up. Harry's staring, he knows this, but he can't help himself. I mean, really, can one see such a fine specimen as Draco Malfoy and not stare at him?

No, Harry concludes, one cannot.

"Not much, a few sickles should do it." The pair traverse to a rather antique, vintage looking cash register that sits on a lonely little table just in front of those flower pots Harry remembers from last week.

This is odd; this whole staying here in the flower shop without feeling even the slightest bit on edge, like Harry's not even aching to get the fuck away from the man that has messed up his feelings.

Harry feels fuzzy, and he isn't sure if that's what an Auror is meant to feel in the presence of his ex-arch-nemesis, but he feels it all the same. His hands are tingly, free from those wretched gloves, and his heart is thumping loudly. Not to mention his glasses are all fogged up from the sharp warmness of his breath - Harry realises he's breathing far too loudly to be normal.

The girl hands Draco a few sickles and traipses back to the front door. She pauses a bit, her own small, gloved hand placed on the brass handle.

"Thanks, sir. Don't worry, you can go back to fucking your boyfriend. Alex and I are gonna do that for the first time on Christmas Day."

And with a slender grin, she opens the door, allowing the cool blast of air outside to come in and practically freeze off Harry's non-existent tits.

Yet even when the door is closed, the girl is gone and the cold has left, Harry can't help but want to scowl at anyone who so much as breathes next to him. How dare that underaged  _child_ insinuate that this perfect Adonis in front of Harry - who seems to be smiling far too much - could ever possibly be Harry's boyfriend.

"She's far too young to be having sex, but to each their own, I suppose." Draco shrugs and rushes to grasp Harry by the arm. "Come on, I'll make you some tea, no?"

This Malfoy is so much more different than Harry could ever have imagined, this Malfoy wears kimonos and pretty smiles and freckles on his face like speckled armour.

This Malfoy offers tea, humps against Harry like there's no tomorrow, moans prettily and more importantly... this is the Malfoy that Harry wants to have. How the hell he knows this after two meetings, he doesn't know.

But he wants him, wants the pretty smiles, wants the feelings and happiness, wants the sex and lust...

Although for now, Harry agrees that it would be best to just go along with the tea. Ask some unanswered questions, deal with the longing building inside of him.

He wonders as Draco drags him through to the back room - something Harry didn't even know existed - if the man will let him.

If the man will let Harry strip him down and take him.


End file.
